‘No, he ain’t married not yet. He’s been a-knocking about the world, they say, till now, and hasn’t hardly had time to turn round, so far. He’s got his aunt living up there now, a widow lady, and his sister; but he won’t want for a wife long. Why, he’s the best match in the country-side, to say nothing of his good looks. Oh yes, sir, we’re a bit proud of our new Squire. You see, the old un wasn’t greatly thought on; and this here Mr. Debenham, he’s the right sort all round. There’s not a soul in all Ladywell as hasn’t a good word for the Squire, or who wouldn’t stand up for him through thick and thin, so as he needed it.’ This conversation, casually overheard, had given Phil a good deal of food for meditation. ‘It is plain he has not let grass grow under his feet,’ he thought. ‘He has played the old trick—won the hearts of the people to strengthen his own position. Who could have thought it of Tor? Yet what else can I think? Facts speak for themselves.’ That evening and the following morning he spent in restless wanderings and anxious thought. He could not talk to the people, because he wished to make out that his English was of the most imperfect kind; and, with all his brooding and thinking, he could not decide upon a regular plan of action. The Debenham indecision was in his nature, and there was now no Tor at his side to give ready advice and assistance. He had for the first time to stand alone and act for himself, and all he could make up his mind to do, was to drift along with the tide of circumstances, and be guided by his own impulse what to say and what to leave unsaid. It was not perhaps a very wise resolve, but it was eminently characteristic of Phil’s habit of mind. Had Mr. Belassis had his real nephew to deal with from the first, things might have turned out very differently for all parties concerned. In this indecisive frame of mind Phil stood at Mr. Meredith’s door, and was admitted to Roma’s studio. Roma, as Tor had said to Maud, possessed that type of beauty which Phil most admired, and the longer they talked the greater grew his admiration. The bust of Maud in the studio at once arrested his attention, and he saw at a glance whose portrait it must be, from its obvious likeness to himself. Given this opening, he followed it up, talking of the Filippo he had once known, making up his mind that he would contrive to make Tor pretty uncomfortable. His next interview, with Mr. Meredith, was very satisfactory. From the first moment it was evident he had made a favourable impression. Something in his voice fell pleasantly and familiarly upon the sensitive ear of the blind man, and caused him to assert more than once that he must have met Signor Pagliadini before.